Kendal, fifth-born child of the queen of England, looked around the room in fear. Every man in this room loathed him, he could feel it. What was going to happen next? Why in the hell had Lennox Turner made Dempsey give Buckingham Palace that stupid 3 a.m. deadline? It was now 2:45. Why did he have to be so specific? The deadline was supposed to be today. That could mean anytime today. It could mean midnight twenty-one hours and fifteen minutes from now. Why not give them extra time? Why the sudden rush? Mum would take it as a slap in the face.
Certainly, the Lord Chamberlain of the Royal Household was busy getting the money together. Mum would insist on that, wouldn’t she? Oh God, she had to. But what if they couldn’t make Dempsey’s new deadline? Getting a hundred million dollars together takes time, even if you’re the queen of England. But of course, they’d been working on it all along undoubtedly. Sure, of course, they had.
Grayson wondered what he’d gotten himself into. The whole thing had taken on a life of its own. How did it all go so bad so quickly? A few unsuccessful bets here and there, mostly made in fun. But before he knew it, he was fifty thousand pounds in debt. Fifty thousand became a hundred thousand, which became half a million seemingly overnight. When Lennox Turner himself had threatened Grayson and told him the total was now three million, it shook him to his core. And now he was cut off. Turner would no longer allow him to place any bets. So how was he supposed to win his money back? How could he ever pay? “You know where to get the money,” Turner had said, referencing the royal family. But of course, Turner didn’t know that Mum had cut him off, too.
The only saving grace in the whole sordid business was Felicity. Sweet, beautiful Felicity. A ray of sunshine in his otherwise gloomy life. And when she told him who her father really was—his best friend, a member of the same family to whom he owed all his money? That was fate. That was meant to be. It was his reprieve from the gallows. Metaphorically speaking. He knew the actual means of his death would be more gruesome than hanging at the hands of the Turner family. All John had to do was make a phone call and take the heat off. A simple call. Brother to brother. But he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t make it happen.
Then Lennox had sent that goon Quincy around. A death threat would be one thing, but Quincy made it clear that the death would be preceded by hours of pain. And that’s when the kidnapping plot sort of popped into his head. He didn’t want to have to threaten John to go public with the revelation that he was really a Turner, but what choice did he have once John refused to help? Sure, John’s reputation was on the line, but Prince Grayson’s very life was on the line. Fortunately, John saw reason.
But then John got his brother involved in the plot and everything blew up. One hundred million dollars?! Grayson was in too deep to argue. He’d lost control of the plan. It was now Lennox’s plan and he had to go along with it. Lennox sent Quincy by again to set everything up. It was agreed that Quincy would escort Grayson out of the manor house late one night using the secret passageway. They’d make it look like Grayson was taken out of the window. And then they’d hole up right here in Felicity’s house while she went off to Norwich to stay with an old college roommate. He’d get his picture taken with Dempsey who would send the ransom note.
Of course, Quincy insisted that they make the kidnapping look especially real and when he came by that night, he hit Grayson on the forehead with the butt of his gun and then punched him in the nose, breaking it, producing blood and making it look like a struggle had occurred. Grayson sure hadn’t expected that. Holding his nose and trying to stem the bleeding from his forehead, he’d said, “Was that really necessary?” Quincy, that psycho, had shrugged and grinned. “Maybe, maybe not.”
And now it was 2:50. Nobody was saying a word. Each man sensed the tension in the room. When Quincy’s phone rang, everybody jumped but Quincy who calmly answered.
“Yes?” Finally, Quincy thought. This was the call he had been expecting. Lennox was going to give him his orders. And, frankly, he wasn’t surprised by them. Not in the least. He looked around the room at the three nervous men while listening to his boss.
“I have 2:52,” Lennox was saying. “I’d be shocked if the old woman came through in the next eight minutes. If the money’s not in the account now, it’s never going to be. Even so, have Dempsey send one more threat exactly at three. Give them two additional minutes. No more. Understood?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And after those two minutes, we’re finished. Right? I mean finished.”
“Even . . . you know?”
“John stopped being my brother years ago.”
“Understood.”
“Then clean it all up. I’ll send a couple guys to help. Then get the hell out of there. Call me when it’s done.”
“Yes, boss.”
The two hung up and Dempsey tentatively asked, “What did Lennox have to say?”
“Oh, nothing, really,” Quincy replied. “He was just asking for an update. And he wants you to send one more email at three o’clock on the nose, giving them two extra minutes.”
Grayson groaned. What the hell difference was that going to make? Mum wasn’t going to pay and that was that. She’d made it clear her whole life that England does not negotiate with terrorists. And she meant it, even if it meant the end of her son. And this certainly was the end. Grayson looked over at Quincy, still holding the gun on his lap.
Then he happened to glance over at Dempsey whose eyes were focused on his laptop. A strange expression was coming over his face.
Was that . . . a smile?
“God almighty,” Dempsey said, his eyes getting wide.
Everyone sat up. “What?” said Holland.
“It’s there!” Dempsey replied, his face breaking into a wide grin. “Well, half of it is anyway. It’s in the account! Fifty million! There’s an email. They say they’ll give the balance when the prince is delivered safe and sound.”
“Bullshit,” said Quincy. “They won’t pay the balance.”
“Who cares?” said Grayson. “Didn’t you hear the man?! It’s fifty bloody million!”
Holland and Grayson both came out of their chairs and stood behind Dempsey, gazing over his shoulder at his laptop, needing to see their miraculous deliverance with their own eyes.
Grayson started to tear up. “I knew she’d pay,” he sniffed. “I just knew she would.”
Quincy pulled out his phone and called his boss who agreed with Quincy that they wouldn’t get the balance, but fifty million was fifty million so why rock the boat? “Sneak Grayson out of there and drop him off at the manor,” Lennox ordered. “Tell him we never want to see him again. Tell my brother that a deal is a deal and that I’ll be wiring a sum of money into his account within twenty-four hours. After that, I never want to see or hear from him, either. Whatever he wants to do with Dempsey is up to him. Maybe you can offer your services.”
“Right, boss,” Quincy said and hung up. Grayson had grabbed a bottle of champagne off the shelf and was uncorking it. “I knew it!” he exclaimed. “I knew all along it would work! I knew Mum would pay.” He took a swig out of the bottle and handed it to Holland. “John, I hope all is forgiven, old sport. Things were desperate, you know. I had no choice. They were going to kill me. But it all worked out, didn’t it? My idea worked! Everybody wins.” He was beaming.
Holland took the bottle. “I suppose so,” he said, taking a swallow. “But this is one sordid affair I’m very happy to put behind me.”
Dempsey grabbed the bottle from Holland and took a swig himself. “And this squares us, right, Holland?”
“Get something straight, Dempsey,” Holland snapped. “I don’t like you. You’re a piece of bloody shite as far as I’m concerned. A thief and a cheat.”
“Okay, sure, but we had a deal, John. Safe passage out of the country and on to Costa Rica, remember? That was the agreement. And I did my part.”
“Of course. Safe passage to Costa Rica.” Holland shot a glance at Quincy. He’d made a deal, all right. He’d made a deal with Quincy who, as it happened, had already offered his services to Holland ahead of Lennox’s suggestion.
“Put down the bottle, gents,” Quincy said, getting out of his chair. “We have to get the prince back to the manor. Prince, you’ll tell everyone that Dempsey here let you go and that he acted alone.”
“Of course.”
Then he waved toward Holland and Dempsey. “Then you two will go back with me to Holland’s place.”
“And work on getting me out of the country,” said Dempsey. “Right?”
“Sure,” Quincy said. “Sure. Now let’s get going.”
“Need a lift?”
The four men spun toward the front of the room to see Kori Briggs and Anya Kovalev, Anya with her gun pointed directly at Quincy.
“Of course, we’ll be taking a little detour to the police station first,” Kori continued, striding over to Quincy and taking back her Glock. “I hope you took good care of him,” she said. “He’s my best friend, you know.”
In an instant, the room became a cacophony of boisterous discord.
“Thank God you’re here!” Dempsey roared. “These guys put me up to this and I’m pretty damn sure that John Holland here was going to have me killed!”
Holland pointed to Quincy. “This man is responsible! I’m the victim of extortion!”
“Please take me home!” Grayson pleaded. “This has all been a perfectly frightful experience! I really need to just lie down.”
Quincy stood silent, moving ever so slightly toward the far end of the room. The other three continued to shout above each other, pointing fingers and professing innocence. Finally, Kori put her thumb and forefinger in her mouth and blew a piercing whistle. “Save it,” she said. “You’re all going down to Thames House.”
“Oh, but surely not me,” said Grayson.
“Especially you, Prince. We’ve been out in the entryway for a while. We heard it all. Ah, and here’s your ride now.” Two uniformed police officers entered the room.
Everyone turned toward them and the shouting began anew.
“But I’m an innocent victim!” pleaded the prince.
“Extortion!” proclaimed Holland.
“You should talk!” screamed Dempsey. “If there was anyone extorted, it was me! In fact, I’m the kidnapping victim here!”
“You’re a worthless liar!” Holland fired back. “You’ve always been a worthless liar!”
“An innocent victim!” the prince pleaded again. “Surely that is obvious!”
“I can’t listen to any more of this,” said Kori. “Get ’em outa here, boys. All four of them.”
“Begging your pardon, miss,” one of the officers said, “Four, did you say?”
Kori and Anya whirled around. Quincy was gone.
“Crap!” Kori said. Turning to Holland, she pointed to the door at the rear of the room. “Where’s that lead?”
“Back stairwell. Goes to the alley in the rear of the house.”
“Come on, Anya!”
The two dashed out of the back of the room and flew down the stairs. They barreled through the back door and out into the alley. Anya looked left and spied a shadow running away from them.
“There!” she said. Both agents began to run down the alley. Anya fired a warning shot. “Halt!” she shouted, but the figure turned at the end of the block and began sprinting down the main street.
Anya and Kori followed with Anya running about ten feet ahead of Kori. In the low lighting from the streetlamps, they could see the silhouetted figure of Andrew Quincy running across the street. He dove behind a parked car, then raised up and Kori could make out something in his hand.
“He’s got a gun!” she shouted to Anya, suddenly wishing they had frisked Quincy when they had the chance. Of course, he would have another gun.
Anya brought her weapon up but as she did so, Kori saw a flash from behind the parked car across the street. Anya grunted and fell to the ground.
“Anya!” Kori cried out.
The figure rose from behind the car and began running again. Kori crossed the street, rage coursing through her body. She drew her Glock, and as the figure neared the ring of light from the next streetlamp, she raised it and aimed. “You son of a bitch!” she snarled. Then she pulled the trigger and watched as the figure of Andrew Quincy crumpled to the pavement.